


Blood, Bandages, and That Prick Peters

by PolyPairings



Series: The Arbiter, The Medic, and Inter-Species Relationships [2]
Category: Halo (Video Games) & Related Fandoms
Genre: Arbiter x Reader, Awkward Flirting, Description of A Bloody Injury, Elites | Sangheili - Freeform, Flirting, Gender-neutral Reader, Halo 5 Time-Frame-ish, No Beta - We Die Like Badasses, Other, Slight Description of Burn Injuries, Slight fluff, Thel 'Vadam x Reader, UNSC Infinity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:02:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22383784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PolyPairings/pseuds/PolyPairings
Summary: You didn’t expect to see the Arbiter, Hero of the Great Schism in the medbay of theInfinity, but you’re certainly not complaining.
Relationships: Thel 'Vadam | The Arbiter/Reader
Series: The Arbiter, The Medic, and Inter-Species Relationships [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1615108
Comments: 9
Kudos: 77





	Blood, Bandages, and That Prick Peters

**Author's Note:**

> Might be OOC? The Arbiter doesn’t get any actual developmental screen time in Halo 5: Guardians. He’s just kinda there to stab things and be shiny. This is based on what I think his personality might be like from what little we do see.

_Thursday, July 15, 2556_

The coffee was so odorous you could taste the smell. Burnt and bitter, it had probably been in the pot for hours. Frowning at it, you tried to decide if the caffeine would be worth drinking that sludge. It would stain your tongue brown for sure, and probably make your breath smell bad. Some tea would be better, and you still had 15 minutes left of your break. Plenty of time to brew it, maybe even enough time to relax.

The infirmary on the _Infinity_ has been busy today, busier than usual. Jul ‘Mdama was getting bolder, and ONI was getting more reckless. The Spartans and marines were getting worked to the bone. ONI was sending the minimal number of everything: ammo, weapons, infantry, backup. They were trying to cut costs, and as a consequence were cutting off lives and increasing injuries. Which is why you’re currently seriously considering drinking the barely-still-safe-for-consumption coffee. So many injured, and so few experienced medics. You’ve been trying to teach the new recruits while working on helping as many patients as you can. It’s exhausting.

“All available medical personnel please report to your assigned infirmary. I repeat, all available medical personnel please report to your assigned infirmary.”

You curse under your breath and start walking as fast as you can to the infirmary. If Roland needs to make an announcement like that, then there must be some serious injuries, a lot of injured, or both. If it’s the squads from the Centauri Mission, it’ll be both. You don’t know the details, but you know it was dangerous enough for Captain Lasky to reach out to the Arbiter for help.

You hear shouting and chaos as you near the hallway, and pick up your pace to a light jog. You can feel your heart rate pick up and briefly note that you won’t need the coffee after all.

The sight of the infirmary is worse than it sounds. There’s so many people moving and shouting, and blood and the stench of burnt skin are in abundance. There’s not enough beds for everyone, despite the injured from the mission being divided up into multiple medbays, so there are marines leaned against the wall or sitting on the floor. You immediately wash your hands and snap on a pair of gloves.

You’re acutely aware of the horror of it all as you rush to the nearest patient. His name tag reads Rameau, and his skin is pale, shimmering in the light with sweat. He’s groaning in pain and trying to curl up around his stomach, where his skin has been blackened by hot plasma. You push his hands down to his sides, and grip his shoulder.

“It’s going to be okay, Rameau. I need you to lay still for me, okay? Curling up will only make it worse.”

His eyes are unfocused and glassy, but he gives you a jerky nod. You immediately get to work, ordering for fluids and pain relievers. As you begin working, your world narrows and you’re hyperfocused. Nothing else matters but the patients, and you don’t bother keeping track how many there are. You don’t feel your hunger or exhaustion, you don’t register the way your already-dry hands burn from the harsh chemical soap and repeated washing. Just stitching, bandaging, applying creams, setting up IVs, injections, helping the junior medical officers and trying to keep anyone from dying.

Time snaps back into focus after you send your recently-bandaged marine to bed rest. She squeezes your hand in gratitude as you hand her a bottle of painkillers to take. You turn around, your mind already going through finding the next patient and assessing, tending, caring. You survey the room, and note there’s no one else left to tend that you can see. All of the worse-off are stabilized, and the last few with minor injuries are already being tended to.

You let out an exhausted sigh and let your shoulders sag. With a glance at the clock, you note that you’ve been in the zone for 2 hours and 43 minutes. Add that to the 10 hours you’ve worked already and you know you’ll be sleeping tonight. As you glance down the row of filled beds, you notice one blocked off by a curtain at the end. Curious, you start walking over to check on whoever’s behind it. The curtains only come up for the really badly injured, or high-rankers.

As you near, you hear the guttural yet smooth sounds of Sangheili speech. Some of the Swords of Sanghelios must have been separated from the rest, and come here for treatment. Since you can’t exactly knock, you clear your throat when you’re right outside the curtain. The chatter stops.

“I’m a Senior Medical Officer, may I come in?”

In response, the curtain is twitched aside slightly in invitation. The smell of leather fills your nose as you step into the enclosed area. There’s somehow three Sangheili squeezed behind the curtain, two of them obviously acting as guards to the one sitting on the bed. You feel startled to find the piercing yellow eyes of the Arbiter meeting your own. His helmet and chest-plate are off, set on the bed next to him. The other two Sangheili eye you with open distrust.

You take a second to get over the shock of _the_ Arbiter sitting in front of you, then risk a step closer. His chestplate, pauldron, gorget, helmet and arm pieces from his armor are sitting on the bed, and his tech suit is pulled down and gathered at his waist. There’s purple blood crusted on the sheets and streaked on the Arbiter’s skin. You suck in a small breath at the depth and length of the gash in his chest. You gesture at it, and make eye contact with both guards before meeting Arbiter’s gaze again.

“May I examine it?”

He dips his head in an approximation if a human nod, and you pull a fresh pair of gloves from a box on a nearby table and slip them on, making sure to move steadily and carefully. You probe the bruised, blue-tinted flesh around the cut, checking for any broken bones. The Arbiter doesn’t ever flinch, just looks over your shoulder with a thousand yard stare. You frown as you note that the wound is almost completely crusted over and dried. It looks like it hasn’t even been cleaned yet.

“Has anyone helped you yet?”

His eyes flick to your face, and his guards tense in...irritation?

“I was placed here, and the curtain put up at my request.”

So that’s a no, then. You know about the Sangheili’s cultural view about injuries and blood, so the curtain makes sense. But where is his attending medical officer? They should be cleaning that wound as soon as possible.

“When was that?”

The guard on the left of the bed speaks up. “We were separated from our ship, and arrived with the rest of the humans.”

You hear the way his tone changes on the last word, but you make no comment on it. “So you’ve been waiting here for almost three hours?” Your tone is incredulous.

The guard on the right practically growls as the one on the left confirms. They’re probably furious with the lack of respect their Kaidon has been receiving. You’re starting to grind your teeth, and peel off one of your gloves to pick up and look at the clipboard attached to the bed. The name of the medical officer makes you even more irritated.

“Please excuse me for a minute, and I’ll be right with you.”

Your tone is tense, and as you turn you angrily snap off your other glove, missing the way the guards tense before the Arbiter gives them a signal to stand down. You close the curtain behind you and look for Junior Medical Officer Peters. Just as you’d expected, he’s chatting with some other medical officers, totally unconcerned.

“Peters,” you snap, and he jerks up and looks around for whoever said his name. When he sees you, he smiles and waves, but you just wave him over. He leaves his friends and ambles his way over to you, still grinning.

“What’s up, Senior?”

You try to keep your voice down, so the Swords a little distance away can’t hear you. You don’t know that they can hear every single word.

“Do you think you’re forgetting something, Junior?” You gesture to the curtained-off area behind you.

“Ohhh, that,” he says, still grinning lazily. “Well, the hinge-heads have a major cultural hang up with injuries and stuff, so I figured they’d want to take care of it themselves.”

You can feel your jaw clenched in rage, and you have to physically loosen it before you can speak. “It is our job to ‘take care of it’, and what you have done, or more accurately haven’t done, is a direct violation of your job.”

Peters looks like he’s starting to get annoyed. “It shouldn’t be our job to take care of **them** ,” he says, gesturing violently to the curtains. “We’re supposed to be caring for humans, not those freaking dinos.”

The disgust in his tone is obvious, and you’re beyond furious now.

“Our job is to take care of our allies, **including** the _Sangheili_ ,” you emphasize the last word, not happy with his slurs. “I shouldn’t even have to remind you that the Arbiter is one of the only reasons we still have people to save.”

Peters is angry now too. “They’re aliens! Barbarians! Humanity needs to look out for itself.” He’s gesturing with short, tense movements. You and he have the attention of everyone conscious in the room, even though you’re too angry to notice.

You have to physically restrain yourself from knocking him upside the head. “Peters, you are hereby on probation in your medical training, and I’m assigning you to sensitivity training,” you spit at him.

“Sensitivity training?! That’s-“ You cut him off.

“If you do not comply, then you will be reassigned to maintenance duty, and I will personally see to it that you find yourself in the waste recycling sector. Do I make myself clear?”

Peters’ fists are clenched at his side, and his face is white with rage, but he works on composing himself.

“ _Do I make myself clear_?” You repeat, more vehemently.

“Yes,” he grinds out, voice dripping with contempt.

“Good. Now get the hell out of here and wait for your schedule change.”

Peters turns and stomps as fast as he can out of the infirmary, his embarrassment clear from his flushed cheeks. You pinch the bridge of your nose and take a few calming breaths before scanning the room. Most still staring at you quickly look away, but a few of your medical officers give you thumbs ups and nod in approval. You wash your hands, gather up the materials you need, and return to the Arbiter’s curtained-off ‘room’.

Any hope that they didn’t hear that disagreement vanishes when you notice the guards are in more relaxed stances, and the Arbiter even appears amused. You set the tray down on the bed and pull on a fresh set of gloves.

“I apologize for the wait,” you say as you prep the materials. “It won’t happen again.”

The Arbiter actually chuckles, and you find you enjoy the rich sound of his deep voice.

“So we heard,” says the guard on the right with a flaring of mandibles. You choose to assume that means he’s amused as well.

You wince and gently wet a cloth in sterile warm water. “I wish you hadn’t heard that,” you murmur.

“I don’t,” the guard on the left says. “It’s nice to know humans have some form of discipline.”

You begin gently cleaning the crusted blood from the Arbiter’s wound. “Still, you didn’t need to hear those slurs.”

The two guards exchange a look, and the Arbiter nudges your arm with his hand for the briefest of moments. You pause and meet his gaze. “We have heard worse,” he says. You frown and continue cleaning.

“And for that, I am sorry.”

There’s a somewhat awkward silence as you continue working. The two guarding Swords haven’t had a human apologize to them before, and feel somewhat conflicted. It’s easier to believe a species is inferior to you if they are unkind. One of them makes a chuffing noise, a Sangheili version of clearing a throat. You finish cleaning the wound before giving him your full attention.

“That...Peters...sounded very angry. Is it possible he would wish to harm the Kaidon for his humiliation?”

You pause before answering. “It is a possibility. He would be stopped by the marines if he tried to get near this place with a gun, though.”

The guards look unconvinced, but you can’t exactly blame them. There are plenty of xenophobic assholes on the ship. Another conversation in Sangheili breaks out, so you start prepping the disinfectant. They come to a conclusion rather quickly, although the Arbiter sounds exasperated. The guard on the left nods respectfully at you when you look up, and they both leave the ‘room’, most likely to stand guard outside the door to the infirmary.

“This will sting,” you warn him as you bring the disinfectant to his wound.

“I am ready,” he says.

You start out at the edges of the wound, where it’s the most superficial. He endures it without flinching yet again, though his fingers twitch. When you reach the deepest part, he makes a small pained noise that you barely hear. Without thinking, you immediately raise your free hand to rest comfortingly on his chest, like you would for a wounded marine.

His skin is warm, and you can feel the imprint of small scales under your fingers. He makes another noise as you press near a particularly tender spot, and you automatically move your thumb back and forth in soothing strokes. You lean back when you finish, and glance up at him to see how he’s doing. Your breath hitches for a second when you meet his gaze. He’s looking at you intensely, and you’re pinned by his gaze for a few seconds until you feel his hand wrap around your wrist and you realize what you’ve been doing.

You glance down and realize your hand is over a scar, no, a brand on his chest. You still your movement and look back up him, and he’s still looking at you in that way you can’t identify.

“Sorry,” you breath, still captivated by his golden eyes. The Arbiter chuckles again, and you can feel the rumbling of his chest. He slowly removes his fingers to allow your hand to move from his chest. His inner eyelids blink, breaking the moment, and you look down at your supplies, embarrassed.

“It’s quite alright,” he says. His voice sounds lower, huskier. You think the curtain may be keeping the air in because the ‘room’ feels very warm now, and is filled with the musky, leathery scent of his skin.

You grab the ointment next, and apply it to his cut as gently as you can. You can still feel his eyes on you as you spread it on with light touches, trying not to cause him pain. You grab the roll of cotton bandage next, still not meeting his eyes.

You hesitate as you eye his torso. It’s all broad muscle, too broad for you to just reach around. To get the bandage wrapped around him, you’re going to have to essentially hug him to pass it around his back. You swallow, meet his eyes again, and your breath hitches again because they’re still so intense. His gaze is almost predatory, calculating, but not dangerous.

“I’m going to have to get...close to you to get the bandage around your torso. Is...Are you okay with that?”

You know for sure that his voice is deeper now, you can practically feel the rumble in your chest. “Yes,” is all he says but it feels like he’s answering more than one question.

You step closer to him and place the large gauze pad over the wound to protect it before starting to wrap the cotton gauze around him. You try to reach all the way around him to pass the roll between your hands, but you still can’t make it. You have to press closer to him, and you do, wary of the cut on his chest. You’re nearly flush with his chest against yours before you can reach and bring the roll to the other side.

Your face burns from the proximity and you lean back to run the bandage around his chest again. Your skin tingles faintly where it touches his and you finally admit to yourself that maybe you’re enjoying being this close to the Arbiter a little too much. Who could blame you, though? The Arbiter is amazing. He’d been tortured and humiliated for ‘letting’ the Master Chief blow up the first Halo ring, and he still chose to fight alongside him. He endures so many insults and slurs, even assassination attempts, and still he remains allied with humanity. He grew from an expendable soldier to the strong leader his people needed him to be.

In short, you’ve found him attractive as hell, and meeting him in person has done nothing to dampen those feelings. He’s been nothing but kind to you, and even tolerant of that prick Peters. You don’t feel the least bit ashamed of those feelings, either. There’s already been confirmed relationships between humans and the allied aliens. It’s even been subtly encouraged by the brass as a way to better the relations between species.

You’re almost done securing the gauze pad over the wound, so you mentally tell yourself to get a grip and stay professional. It’s very difficult not to imagine a relationship with the Arbiter when you’re practically straddling him and pressed up against him. You would have thought the Arbiter being attracted to you, a random human medic, a fantasy. You think you might still be fooling yourself into seeing something that isn’t there but...that intensity behind his eyes when he looked at you, and the way his fingers lingered on your arm...

You blink hard, and refocus on your task. When you’re satisfied with the wrapping, you realize you can’t reach the tape while holding the end in place. You look up at Arbiter again, and he’s still focused on you.

“Could you hold this here, please?” You don’t know how, but you manage to keep your voice steady. In response, the Arbiter moves one of his hands to cover yours, and you pause before sliding your hands out from under his. You shouldn’t be thinking about how nice his hand feels over yours, or how pleasing the rough texture of his skin is, but you’re doing it anyway.

You step back and take a short, calming breath before leaning over to grab the tape. You lean in close again, and you’re pleasantly surprised that Arbiter seems to know what you need him to do without you asking. He holds the end of the gauze strip firmly in place and moves his fingers enough to give you space to place the tape. He’s probably one of the most cooperative patients you’ve ever had.

You step back again and give him a once-over, satisfied with your work. You may also have been observing his firm muscles and the multitude of scars, but who’s gonna notice? Apparently Arbiter does.

“Are you satisfied with what you see?” His eyes glint in mischief, and his tone suggests that he’s not just asking about your handiwork. Now you know for sure he’s messing with you at the least, flirting with you at best. You decide to flirt back because fuck it, the Arbiter is flirting with you. You! To hell with professionalism.

You smirk just a little, but he catches it. “Yep, everything looks good,” your tone is smooth. You’re not as flustered when you’re not pressed up against him. The Arbiter isn’t going to ignore the positive feedback. He places a hand on his chestplate.

“Care to help me put this on?” Well damn, he’s enjoying making you flustered, isn’t he? You give him a slightly exasperated look that tells him you know exactly what he’s doing, but approach to help anyway. His tech suit has to go back on first, which you carefully help him do so he doesn't stretch the wound. He slips his right arm into it, other one bare.

Getting his chestplate back on is a process. The front and back pieces are connected at the shoulders, so the armor has to be lowered on from above his head. It is _heavy_ , but the Arbiter picks it up like it weighs as much as a pillow. He has you guide it into place as he lowers it, but it’s still difficult and an awkward position to stand in. A bit of an intimate one, too.

The Arbiter is sitting on the bed with his legs spread apart, and you’re standing in between them and rather close to him. You tell yourself that your face feels hot from exertion, and not because the Arbiter succeeded in his mission to make you flustered again. When the chest plate is finally clanked into place, you breath a sigh of relief and move to step back.

Before you can, the Arbiter catches your sleeve, successfully halting you and catching your attention.

“We’re not done yet,” he says, and you feel the faint urge to smack him from the smug look on his face. He knows he won the unspoken battle of making you flustered. He turns slightly to the side and gestures to the loose straps between the plates of armor. You feel like that’s something he could do himself, but you realize he’d have to twist and bend to see the straps, which could strain his injury.

You give him a half-hearted dirty look anyway, and he just rumbles in a silent chuckle. His tech suit is skin tight and leaves pretty much nothing to the imagination. He asked for your help, but still, you want to be sure...

“Would you be comfortable with me touching you to do those?” He looks puzzled for a few seconds, then...smiles? It looks like a smile, or a Sangheili version of one, anyway.

“Yes,” he says. “I appreciate your asking.”

You make him raise his left arm and duck under it to start on the straps. They aren’t difficult to do up, but the order and position of the straps are confusing as hell. There’s some straight-forward ones, which you do first before realizing they actually go on top of the crisscrossing ones.

You’re less flustered when you have a task to do, and before you’re even done with the first side of straps you’re too frustrated to be embarrassed. You finally give in to the impulse and curse quietly under your breath when you realize you have to undo and redo a section of straps yet again, and the Arbiter can’t help but to chuckle at you.

You huff in annoyance and briefly consider flipping him off, but decide that possibly insulting a major diplomatic figure would be a bad idea. You’re barely familiar with him, since you’ve only actually known him for an hour. Besides, it wouldn’t exactly be fair to flip off someone who can’t shoot the bird back. Sangheili only have four fingers, no middle ones, so sad.

You buckle the last strap into place and tilt your head to look at your work. You think you’ve finally got it. The other side should be easier now that you have something to work off of, but you’ll have to keep leaning over to check the placement. It's a bit tiring, but you get the chestplate completely strapped back on. You decide to do the gorget next and get all the little platings along his neck out of the way. This too is accompanied by frustration and a hushed curse or two.

Doing up the straps for the pauldron and arm pieces is easier, and faster. The Arbiter is a very good patient, and also incredibly, well, patient. The sense of fatigue you’d ignored during all the action has slowly come creeping back in, and you’re fighting yawns as you finish with the last strap. You absent-mindedly pat the chest plate when you finish, and miss the way the Arbiter looks at you with amusement. You start gathering up the used supplies as he stands and carefully stretches. You do admire him a little more out of the corner of your eye because damn, he’s tall. And well-muscled. And polite. And kind. And maybe you really do have a crush on the Arbiter.

He picks up his helm and puts it on, recharging energy shields making the air around him shimmer. You expect him to leave then, but he turns to you and waits for you to give him your attention.

“When will the wound need re-dressed?”

You hum briefly, trying to remember the general Sangheili baseline for healing. “I’d say at least once a day, until it develops some scar tissue. Then after that, less.”

You finish piling things on the tray and move to start taking the curtains down after a nod of assent from him.

“Cleaning and re-bandaging is simple enough for the junior medical officers, so you can come in at any time to get them changed.”

The Arbiter nods, and observes said junior medical officers and the others in the room with a practiced eye.

“And would you be available?”

You halt in your folding of the now-ringless curtains. “Oh, I- yes, I’ll be here tomorrow.” He’s looking at you in a calculating manner, and he seems to find something in your face because he seems pleased.

He smiles with his eyes and bows his head a little. “I look forward to seeing you again. Good day, Doctor (L/N).” He holds out a hand for you to shake.

You smile back, putting the now-folded curtains on the bed. “You as well, Arbiter. Good day.”

You shake his hand firmly, as best you can given that his hand is probably twice the size of yours. His hand and eyes linger with yours a little bit longer than necessary, and you can sense potential in it.

**Author's Note:**

> So far I’m thinking I’ll make a trilogy series based on this. Second and third Fics are in the works!


End file.
